Lost and Found
by areosmithlover
Summary: How John reacts when he Sherlock reveals himself.


John missed Sherlock. _Oh_, how he missed him. More than his therapist, Lestrade(even though Lestrade missed Sherlock too, whether he he was willing to admit or not), or even Mrs. Hudson would ever understand.

Sure Sherlock was an annoying, aggravating, vexatious git when he wanted to be, but he cared. Sherlock had always cared more than he was ever going to admit. Well, more than he would have ever admitted before _that day _happened.

Sherlock had been gone for two years now. John's life had gone back to normal. He moved out of the flat, although Mrs. Hudson kept it open just in case Sherlock were to ever come back. But no matter how 'back to normal' John's life got, he would never forget that day. That dreadful day.

John's therapist had cruelly made him relive the events of the day his best friend had died. She had made him explain it all. She had made him talk about how Sherlock had been standing on the edge of the roof. She had made him explain how scared he had been. She had made him explain the emptiness, the expanding hole that Sherlock's death had impressed upon his heart. And the growing doom of how _normal _his life would go back to being.

And when he says normal...no more crazy experiments going on...no more violin-_gorgeous_ violin playing, mind you- at all hours of the night...no more heads in the refrigerator...no more mess...no more skulls on the mantel...no more bullet holes in the wall...no more gallivanting off to solve impossible crimes with the best and most extraordinary man he had ever known.

Nobody knew what Sherlock had _done _for John's life. Not even Sherlock himself knew. Sherlock had made his life interesting again. Sherlock had brought John back to reality. Sherlock had given John somebody to trust, and _worry_ about, and _care_ about. Sherlock had given John everything he had wished for after coming back from Afghanistan, and now he was gone, and it all went back to the way it was. The _dreadful_ way it was. And _god, _John missed the craziness. _God, _he missed _Sherlock._

"Where _are_ you, Sherlock? Where'd you go this time? Why'd you have to go and leave me behind?" John exclaimed at Sherlock's grave-site as a couple of stray tears fell on the ground next to Sherlock's grave.

To say that John was surprised he had cried was an understatement. After the first year, John had just about cried himself out. After that first year, he had just went numb. Completely and utterly numb, as if there was nothing inside of him. Just hollowness, and a broken heart.

John wanted answers, and he wanted them now. He wished Sherlock could just explain it all. He wanted to know why Sherlock had done it. 'Why?' he asked himself, 'You're the strongest man I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. You wouldn't have killed yourself over this; you would have fixed it with that brilliant mind of yours. So why? What did Moriarty threaten you with. Don't you _dare_ think I haven't figured out that Moriarty was the cause of all this. I was never stupid you know.' He thought this all in as angry a demeanor as he could muster up, as if Sherlock could _hear _his thoughts or something.

Little did John know, that Sherlock was merely hidden by a couple of trees that were _very_ close to John, listening, knowing in his one-of-a-kind mind what John was thinking. Sherlock wished that he could tell John everything. It was extraordinarily sad to see John this_ depressed, _for that was really the only word for it.

Sherlock had been John's best friend, and had given him a life that John had wished for, sure. But John had given Sherlock so much more. John had given Sherlock a best friend, something he had _never_ had before. John had given Sherlock a heart, also something he had never had before. And lastly, John had given Sherlock perspective. Meeting John, someone the complete opposite of who and what Sherlock was, had made him see the world with a new light.

Sherlock just sat behind his tree and watched, wishing he could just explain it all and show himself to his friend. To the world. Tell them all just how real Moriarty was. He hadn't recorded Moriarty's confession for nothing. That's why Sherlock was acting so clueless on that rooftop, for he wasn't stupid. He knew everything Moriarty had told him anyways, he just needed Moriarty to confess it so Sherlock could get it all recorded. And now, he wished he could tell the world the truth, but there was something he had to do first.

Sherlock had traveled all over the place, depleting Moriarty's criminal web, strand by strand. But, he just had one last strand left. Moran. Sebastian Moran. The last strand. The last one of Moriarty's people. And Sherlock knew that Moran would be the hardest to get to. He was the closest out of all of the web to Moriarty.

Saying a silent goodbye to John, he headed back the way he had come. Back to Irene Adler's house. He had been staying at Irene's house, because she was supposed to be dead as well, _and _she owed him a major favor. It's not like she minded anyways. Let's not all forget what her phone password was. Sherlock definitely didn't forget that when he was choosing who he would end up having to stay with out of the few people he had to choose from.

He walked in the front door to Irene's flat, and quietly yelled out, "Irene? You here?"

"Yeah, what's up?" She asked Sherlock.

"I have to go get Moriraty's last man standing."

"Moran? What are you going to do with him?" Irene asked, clearly interested.

"Of course it's Moran," he snapped, disappointed, "And, I'm giving him right to the police just like I did all the others."

"Don't be condescending, I _am _doing you a favor, _dear,_" She said, jokingly, "And oh, you gave them all to the police? I was under the impression that you had killed them."

"Do _not _call me that. The only ones that I killed, and I didn't technically kill them, Mycroft's men did, were the three assassins that had the guns on Lestrade, John, and Mrs. Hudson."

"I was kidding," she said about calling him dear, "And oh. I figured you would have personally killed the one who had the gun on your John."

"He's not 'my John'. And no, as I said before, Mycroft's _men _did. Not Mycroft And not me." Sherlock explained in that same condescending, arrogant tone that he always used.

In the two years that he had stayed here with Irene, he had actually come to care for her, you know, like _that_. Just a bit, but he wasn't going to admit that to her, so he just had to keep ignoring her snide little comments about 'him and John' instead of telling her who he actually felt _those_ kind of feelings for. But as he said before, it was just a bit, and he wasn't going to admit it to her.

"_He _wishes he was 'your John'," she said with a smirk. Sherlock smiled and rolled his eyes, "And alright alright. You didn't kill them. I get it. Whatever you believe, I'm not stupid. You don't have to explain everything to me like a five year old."

He smirked, "Apparently, I do. And I don't know what time I'll be back, but I should be out of here tomorrow if everything goes as planned. You'll be able to come back into the world too. No more Moriarty or his men to harass you either."

"I know. And you can be bloody well sure that I will. The first person I'm coming to bother, though, is you. Just so you know." She said with a smirk.

A ghost of a smile appeared on his face, "Yeah, yeah. I know."

"Payback for having to live with you for two years," She joked.

"Yeah, but if I remember correctly, I did save your life," He said as he walked towards the front door.

"Just be careful, all right?" she said.

He rolled his eyes as he walked out, "Will do."

He walked back into the heart of London, using back roads and heading towards Moran's flat. He couldn't hide his excitement at all. He was going to be able to see John again for the first time in two years. He was going to be able to tell the world the truth about Moriarty. He was going to be able to go out into London and let people _see _him again. He was going to be able to solve crimes again. He was going to be able to live his old life again.

He got Moran, drugged him, tied him up just a little tighter than he should have, and dropped him right on the ground in front of Scotland Yard. He knew Lestrade would know who it was, considering they had been looking for Moran for about a year now. But when a man that's supposed to be dead shows up at your flat, you're a little more than surprised, so it was easy for Sherlock to drug Moran before he could react.

He hid on the side of a nearby building, out of view of Scotland Yard, so that he could see what was going on over there, but they couldn't see him. He had gotten very good at sneaking around and being invisible. Almost so good that he could probably be a spy if he chose to. When you're supposed to be dead and you're still a fugitive, and every person you care about's life is on the line, you learn to be very sneaky.

Sergeant Sally Donovan walked out of Scotland Yard to get something out of her car, considering she had her keys in hand, but none of her other possessions with her. 'Ugh. Why does it always have to be Donovan?' Sherlock thought sourly.

Donovan laid eyes on Moran, and she jumped and dropped her keys, "Lestrade! We have a delivery! I think you're going to like this one! Someone you've been looking for, for a while!"

Lestrade came running out. 'Good old Lestrade,' Sherlock thought. He hadn't seen Lestrade in quite a while. Well, Lestrade hadn't seen _Sherlock_ in quite a while would be a better way to put it. No matter though, he would tomorrow.

"Good god! How did he get here? Did you see anyone?" He questioned Donovan.

"No, he was just dropped off here, just like this. I came outside to get a box of files from my car, and here he was. Just left here, just like this." Donovan explained.

"Well, well, well. Come on, Moran. Let's get you in some handcuffs and in a cell. I don't care who dropped him off, but Donovan, we've got him!" Lestrade explained excitedly.

Sherlock walked away when he saw them go inside, dragging Moran along with them. Sherlock twisted the voice recorder that would clear his name around in his pocket as he left back for Irene's house.

He walked through the front doors, and exclaimed, "Irene, he's gone! We can actually go outside and not worry about them seeing us!"

"Wow. That was quick," She said as she walked out. She had her hair down and it looked sort of wet. She must have been getting ready for bed. Well, it was kind of late. Ten-thirty. But, not Irene Adler late. So what was going on.

"Did you just get out of the shower?" He asked, curiously.

"Not _just, _but yes. And god, can't you leave your deductions behind one day?" Irene asked, annoyed.

"Oh. And no, why?" He asked, already knowing the answer.

"Because it's annoying," She said, clearly lying.

"I'm not going to unless you say the real truth as to why you don't like it," He said, smirking.

"Fine. Because I can't do it. Happy?" She said, rolling her eyes at his victorious look.

"Yes. And why were you taking a shower? You take one in the morning when you wake up, and one at night, right before you go to bed-which is usually at precisely twelve o'clock. So why are you taking one now?" He asked.

"You said you would stop!" She said, defeated.

"That wasn't a deduction, that was a fact." He stated.

She rolled her eyes, and began, "Fine. I was painting and I got it all over myself."

"Ah," he said, and then asked, narrowing his eyes, "Painting? I didn't know you painted."

"Yeah, well _you _don't _know _everything." She said, smirking.

"What were you painting?" He asked curiously.

"None of your business," she replied, rolling her eyes just to ignore him.

"Fine." he said sulkily.

"You are _such_ a child," She said emphasizing such.

They stayed up, and talked about how tomorrow was going to go, and then she went off to her bedroom to go to sleep. He didn't go off to his though, because there was no way he was sleeping. He was way too anxious.

By the time Irene woke up, Sherlock was already all ready to go. "If you don't hurry up, I'm going to go without you," he threatened.

"Then whose going to take care of your nose when he punches you," She countered.

"He's not going to punch me." He quipped.

"Yes he will. And hang on." she said.

"You know I'm not patient," he complained.

"Learn to be."

"Fine." He said as she came out of the bathroom dressed like she usually was before this whole escapade with having to pretend they were dead happened. Black, skin-tight dress; hair done up,which he hadn't seen it like that in a very long time; ankle-breaking stilettos, and her makeup all done. He then added, "Really? You're going to see John. Did you miss him a lot or something?"

"Shut up. And no, I'm getting to go out in public without having to be in some sort of disguise, you can bet I'm going out how I _used_ to go out." She explained.

"Ah," He said as he headed for the door.

"Do you still have my phone?" She asked him.

"Yes." He replied, shortly.

"May I have it back?" she asked, hoping he would say fine so she didn't have to go get a new one.

"Yes. I was only keeping it because I knew you'd want it back, considering the fact that I knew you were alive in the first place."

"Alright. Thanks."

They got to John's new flat and knocked on the door. "Hold on," he said from inside. A few seconds later, the door opened slowly.

"Hell-" John was about to ask 'Hello?', but he cut himself off when he realized who it was. Then, after shock finally set in, he punched Sherlock squarely in the nose.

Irene heard the crunch and knew that the punch had probably been a _killer_ one. She helped Sherlock with his nose, and said with a smirk, "I told you he was going to punch you."

"Shut up," he complained, although it was slightly hard to understand because they were trying to stop the bleeding.

"What the _hell _are you doing here?! Either of you?! You're _both_ supposed to be dead!" John exclaimed, angrily.

"I saved her life. And I faked my death," Sherlock said, as if it was all so obvious.

Irene rolled her eyes. Typical John and Sherlock. Always bickering, like an old married couple. Then, as if on cue, John punched Sherlock _again._ Not with as much force though. He got ready to punch Sherlock again, but before John could do any more damage, Irene went and put John's hands behind his back, hugged him, and went to sit him down on the couch. When he was situated, Irene went back to help Sherlock with his cheekbone this time.

"Oh. He's furious. He actually punched your cheekbone, which would hurt like hell, so he really, really is pissed." Irene said as she fixed up his cheekbone and worked on stopping the blood, or at least slowing it.

"Yeah. Tell me about it," he said.

"Well, you did kind of ask for the second one," Irene said, but shut up when she got an icy glare from Sherlock, "Sorry."

When the bleeding had stopped, he went over and sat down in the chair across from John. He started trying to say, "I'm sorry, I just had-" but cut himself off when John tried to punch him again, but Irene pulled John back. Sherlock was actually glad Irene had come or else he would probably be incredibly bloody right now.

"You were dead! On a slab. I took you're pulse!" John exclaimed as a tear slipped down his cheek, "I saw you fall..."

"Let me expla-" Sherlock started.

He was cut off by John practically screaming, "You BASTARD! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU"

Sherlock let him finish his exclamations this time. "You were dead. I know because I went and took your pulse. I saw you fall. I saw it all. I was a soldier in Afghanistan. I had to bury enough of my friends. Then you had to go and make me bury you too. I had to bury what I thought was my best friend. I've buried so many people, but I never cried so hard in my life until the day I saw my _best_ friend die, and I didn't even know why he had just went and taken his own life!"

"I realize this. And I'm sorry, but if I wouldn't have done what I didn't I would have had to be burying you." Sherlock explained gently.

"You fell and you ruined my..." John cut himself off, "_What?"_

"Moriarty had three of his men. One on Lestrade, one on Mrs. Hudson, and one on...you. The only way I could get him to call them off, was if I killed myself. I knew this was his plan, so I asked Molly and Mycroft for assistance in faking my death. Then, I stayed with Irene for the two years, considering she was supposed to be dead and she owed me a big favor. Mycroft's secret agents killed the three assassins with my help in finding them. Then, I went and gave all of the other people in Moriarty's crime web to the police. Lastly, I found Moran, drugged him, and left him in front of Scotland Yard where I watched Lestrade and Donovan take him in and put him in handcuffs. Then, here we are today." Sherlock explained.

What John did next surprised the hell out of them all. John went over and hugged Sherlock. It was one of those 'guy hugs'. You know, one of those hugs that are for guys who are too 'manly' to give each other a real hug. But then, Sherlock surprised them by actually hugging John back.

Irene couldn't help but smile. They were too adorable. As much as she teased Sherlock about him and John being together, she knew they were just friends. Practically brothers. And seeing them hug like this, actually made her realize just how miserable they must have been and how much they probably missed each other. Now if only she could get Sherlock to hug her, kiss her, or something, her day would be complete...

The End


End file.
